I had a tough upbringing but the thing that really shattered me happened when I was twelve.

I had a teenage cousin named Pete that I was crazy about. In fact, everyone loved him. This guy was our hero. There was nothing he couldn’t do, as far as we were concerned. He could literally charm anything and anyone he was around. Birds, squirrels, small animals never seemed to mind his presence. And he was just a peaceful quiet person to be around.

My father would include Pete on family camping trips and we would be elated. Not only would Pete be with us, but Daddy would stay on his best behavior. Pete even had that effect on my volatile and violent father. Daddy respected Pete and wanted Pete to reciprocate. Those excursions were always the best.

We learned so many things from Pete. He was a country boy so he knew the outdoors. But it was more than that. Pete belonged to nature. He had an innate ability to commune with his surroundings.

I saw birds approach him. Squirrels would play within feet of him. Pete taught me to be quiet and observe. It was so easy to be around him.

One trip when I was 10 years old stands out in my memory. I rarely speak of it because it stirs up emotions I still succumb to. It will sound as if I am lying but I don’t care. I need to talk about it.

Daddy always picked really remote locations for our camping trips. Off the beaten path doesn’t come close. There wasn’t a road into the place and we had traveled a dirt road for several miles off the highway to get there. Daddy and Pete were in the old truck ahead of us. Mama followed in the station wagon. After about 30 minutes we arrived at a small clearing next to a creek. The weather was beautiful. We could fish, swim, roam the woods and best of all, Pete was along. That meant Daddy wouldn’t get drunk, go psycho and have us wondering if we would make it home alive.

But it wasn’t meant to be. A storm blew up that evening. More than one tornado ripped through during the night. All of us were huddled together in a huge Army issue tent, listening to trees coming down all around us. The tornadoes passed but it rained for two more days and nights. The creek overflowed the bank and Daddy and Pete worked shifts through the hours digging trenches around the tent to keep the bulk of the water from washing us away. They fought snakes trying to get in the tent to find a drier place. And for once, my siblings and I were afraid of something besides our father. It was impossible to try to leave while it was storming. Everything was a mudhole or a tree was across it.

The third morning we woke up to silence other than the dripping of water from the trees. And frogs were singing. Pete sat up and smiled. He put a finger to his lips to warn us to be quiet. And because he was so fascinating to us all, we listened. Pete puckered up his lips and suddenly he was talking to the frogs. I don’t mean he was imitating them. He started talking to the frogs and within a minute, it seemed as if a thousand frogs answered him and started trying to get into the tent. We were mesmerized. As long as I live I will never forget the sound of those frogs jumping against the tent.

Being around someone like Pete was like being around magic. I idolized him just as everyone did. He was a gifted artist and an old soul. I still love him.

But one morning when I was 12, I found my mother crying when I got up to go to school. She told me Pete had committed suicide the evening before. What no one knew until it was too late was that Pete was dying. There was nothing the doctors could do. It was only a matter of time before he succumbed to the disease ravaging his body. He couldn’t bear the thought of his mother watching him die.

So Pete visited some people, my mother included and confessed he was considering suicide. My mother thought she had talked him out of it. But he left our house, drove about two miles away and pulled off the road. He took a deck of cards and played a game of solitaire and lost. The cards were there. It was obvious that he played the game to make a decision.

I don’t know why I went to school that day. Mama told me I could stay home. But I think I was in shock. I don’t remember anything that happened that day up until it was time for a math class. I had always been a good student but when the teacher asked me a question I went blank. I don’t remember what the question was but I guess she had asked me more than once to answer her question. And I had no clue what she was talking about.

I never understood what I may have said or done to make her so angry with me. But she called me stupid in front of the entire class. And she didn’t stop there. She told me she couldn’t for the life of her understand why my prior teachers thought I was so smart because all she had ever witnessed was an idiot.

There were some other things said too that I don’t really remember other than the realization that I was trash in her eyes.

I got up from my desk as if in a trance and walked out of the classroom. She was screaming at me. I didn’t really know where I was going. A girl in my classroom I’d become friendly with jumped up and ran out of the classroom to me. When she touched me and I saw the compassion in her eyes, I said, “He’s dead”, and started to cry. I could still her the teacher yelling for both of us to get back in the classroom when my friend took my hand, took me to the principal’s office, and told him exactly what had taken place.

This is the watered down version. I am afraid of being emotional. I am more inclined to keep a rigid control of myself and keep my stories to myself. I don’t like remembering.

But sometimes remembering is necessary. It’s different for everyone but all of us have been formed by our experiences. I prefer to put the spin on the positive outcomes rather than negative ones. This is because I no longer want to live with nightmares. The bad times affected me. But so did the beautiful times. Those are the memories I desire to remember. Maybe I can purge whatever is inside me that still holds me back. My blog is for my own self discovery. But I would like to think others with phobias similar to mine might discover their own inclination to shake off the past, and truly spread their wings.

I can’t conclude my memories of this life changing time of loss without the final scene burned into my mind. It was after the funeral and family was gathered at the home of my aunt and uncle, Pete’s parents. Everyone was devastated. More than once I slipped outside to cry in private. This was an act I’d learned early because one didn’t cry in front of my father. Tears while that razor strap was biting your back and legs seemed to fuel his rage until my mother would put herself between us to stop him.

So it was shocking for me to discover my father outside deep in grief over the loss of a young man everyone loved. I froze and he never saw me witness his pain. I can’t imagine what his reaction would have been. I only know it would have been an invasion of his privacy and he would not have liked it.

It’s the only time I ever saw him cry.

This is harder than I thought. I think of myself as a positive person but this need to write about the things that molded me brings up dark memories. Writing means remembering things that are sometimes best left forgotten. But I hope it helps me find balance.

I am actually hoping for some feedback from people like me. Introverts. Empaths. I am sensitive to certain things. But I hesitate to share because I have been keeping secrets for years. Like most introverts I have difficulty putting into words how I feel. I don’t need validation but I don’t want to go through life always trying to make others understand what I can’t find words to describe.

I need to do this for therapy. I also think it might help people who allow themselves to remain victims due to low self esteem. There is inside of all of us a desire to be respected and loved. My story is for those people who truly believe they don’t deserve better.

I want to help you understand that you do.

I won’t go behind myself to see what I have already written. This blog is just a place where I can vent and be me. And everything in my past has not been ugly or psyche destroying.

I thought of my cousins on my way home this evening. Days of exploring the woods, jumping out of haylofts onto piles of fresh hay. Sneaking into the barn to pilfer Pa’s peanuts. I never understood why he would care. Peanuts are for eating.

Smiling faces surrounded by blazing red hair and freckles galore. My cousins never understood how beautiful they were and that I envied them. I can hear them giggling now.

I remember the day we were playing hide and seek and Jeff was hiding in the well. Such a daredevil. So confident. Until he climbed out of the well and swatted the back of my head playfully. He didn’t know I was wearing a hairpiece. The shock on his face was worth the tears we laughed when he thought he had scalped me. Just a day in our childhood to be cherished forever. I will miss you forever, Jeff.

Sometimes we have to remind ourselves of the good times. Things we dwell on have such an impact on our attitudes, our dispositions. I love reminiscing about the people who made an impact on me. And I think I have some catching up to do

There is no story to tell if I don’t just jump right in and admit my biological father often bragged about being a murderer. It’s not something I care for the world to know. He’s been dead more years than I can remember, and I had no contact with him during the last 18 plus years of his life. Still, I grew up in fear of him. There was no room for respect or love. My siblings and I were more the result of virtually nonexistent birth control than any desire he ever had to be a parent.

My mother, on the other hand, lived for her kids. She began her marriage to my father as a mousey girl who couldn’t stand up to the abuse she received. But as we grew older and the recipient of more of his unfounded rage, she willingly put herself between his fury and the object of it more times than I could possibly recount.

One of his favorite tales during his fits of psychotic behavior was the story of a man he murdered in Orange, TX between 1943 and 1945. The details have blurred over time, but he strangled the man with his bare hands and gouged his eyes out just for fun. It remains unsolved, if indeed, it ever happened. There’s a part of me that wants to research it further than I could in the past. There’s a bigger part of me that believes it will backfire on me and family members will not forgive me for bringing to remembrance.

I admit I am a child abuse survivor, but not to gain a sympathetic ear. Our past can define who we ultimately become if we are not strong enough to overcome the hurts, fears and insecurities that envelop us. I chose to go beyond my comfort zone and ignore what was beaten into me as a child. I left negativity behind me. I knew I was not stupid, worthless and a waste of space, even though I believed it growing up. My insecurities kept me from accomplishing my dreams until I was a divorced mom with two kids. My successes are because I wanted to be a good example for them.

Please keep coming back to my blog. I look forward to reaching out to anyone who feels unworthy, unloved, and incapable. There is a warrior inside each of us struggling to be set free. If I could overcome my past to become the person I am today, I believe with all my heart anyone can. You just have to want peace and contentment enough to face your demons.

I always wanted to be a writer. I’m not too sure where I wanted a writing career to take me. It wasn’t money or fame that triggered my need to create. It was escapism.

Life was hard growing up, but I survived by living in my own world. Writing was breath to me. Creating other worlds and identities gave me a safe place to be.

Then I grew up. I got to be a writer, but not the venue I dreamed of. Although I no longer view journalism in a desirable light, working in the field was rewarding, if not completely satisfying. However, in my day, journalists merely reported the news instead of manipulating it.

Friends have asked why I want to blog now after so many years of a creative slump. I still think I have a story to tell. I just don’t want anyone to know who is telling it. I’ve been burdened with secrets most of my existence. It’s time to come clean. I’m not sure how to get things out of my system without betraying trust, hurting some loved ones, and revealing painful memories. It’s been suggested that I change names, times and locations. I could do that. But there will always be someone who won’t understand.

I’m no longer young. I don’t have great aspirations other than being happy and living a peaceful life. So, welcome to Pandora’s Box. If you stay with me during this journey, perhaps you will understand why I need to purge myself. Perhaps you will understand why some things are better left alone. And perhaps I can finally get the peace I am looking for.

This is an example post, originally published as part of Blogging University. Enroll in one of our ten programs, and start your blog right.

You’re going to publish a post today. Don’t worry about how your blog looks. Don’t worry if you haven’t given it a name yet, or you’re feeling overwhelmed. Just click the “New Post” button, and tell us why you’re here.

Why do this?

• Because it gives new readers context. What are you about? Why should they read your blog?
• Because it will help you focus you own ideas about your blog and what you’d like to do with it.

The post can be short or long, a personal intro to your life or a bloggy mission statement, a manifesto for the future or a simple outline of your the types of things you hope to publish.

To help you get started, here are a few questions:

• Why are you blogging publicly, rather than keeping a personal journal?
• What topics do you think you’ll write about?
• Who would you love to connect with via your blog?
• If you blog successfully throughout the next year, what would you hope to have accomplished?

You’re not locked into any of this; one of the wonderful things about blogs is how they constantly evolve as we learn, grow, and interact with one another — but it’s good to know where and why you started, and articulating your goals may just give you a few other post ideas.

Can’t think how to get started? Just write the first thing that pops into your head. Anne Lamott, author of a book on writing we love, says that you need to give yourself permission to write a “crappy first draft”. Anne makes a great point — just start writing, and worry about editing it later.

When you’re ready to publish, give your post three to five tags that describe your blog’s focus — writing, photography, fiction, parenting, food, cars, movies, sports, whatever. These tags will help others who care about your topics find you in the Reader. Make sure one of the tags is “zerotohero,” so other new bloggers can find you, too.